


the sly traveller, implausibly bestowing

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the ridiculously romantic Rampod Redbolts au [12]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Podrick Payne is a Gift, Ramsay Bolton's actual legit solid C+ parenting, he tries at least, it's a goddamn Christmas miracle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-09 18:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20123008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Ramsay is the most unlikely nurturer; a cruel, impatient man, highly unsuited for the position. But in the end he muddles along nicely (with great help from Pod).Can be read as a standalone, 5 +1 fic, you don't need to be familiar with the verse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 5 times Ramsay Redbolt was a good father + 1 time he was a good grandfather

1.

"Merik Redbolt!"

Ramsay had been advancing along the balcony when he heard the familiar dulcet tones of his lover. He almost leapt out of his skin in surprise. He could perhaps count on one hand the amount of times Podrick had to discipline Merik, and even then he wouldn’t need all of his fingers. Merik was generally an uncomplicated child, and even when he was being trying, Ramsay was the more forceful parent. He was the one who set out the punishments. For Pod to be cross enough to raise his voice, Merik must have done something quite spectacularly awful. Morbidly intrigued, Ramsay followed the source of the voice, choosing to remain in the shadows of the balcony.

It was always a strange experience, watching Pod struggle with anger. He was not a naturally ferocious man. Ramsay wondered how Pod was going to handle being stern with Merik. If the boy pressed his luck with Pod’s sweet nature and tried to wriggle free from his punishment, then Ramsay could present himself and watch the boy's hopes die. It was perhaps a cruel supposition to wait out for, but Ramsay had never been a gentle man. He loved his son as much as he was capable of loving anyone. But that did not preclude Ramsay from enjoying the boy getting his just desserts, whatever that might happen to be.

Ramsay at last spied his fuming love, facing away from him and towering over Merik. They were near the arches which lead to the sparring yard. The boy stood trembling with hunched shoulders. A sure sign he was guilty of whatever he had been accused. Pod was holding something tight in his hands, but from the angle he loomed from above, Ramsay could not quite make out what.

“Where did you get this bow?” Pod demanded.

Merik shrugged, and Pod’s hand snapped out, jerking the boy’s chin upwards roughly, so that Merik was forced to raise his eyes and look at him.

“This is your father’s best bow,” Pod snarled, not as quietly as he likely intended to, “His _prize_ bow. Have you lost your mind?”

At those words, Ramsay was indeed able to recognise the shape of his weirwood bow now safely in Pod’s hands. He had won it at an archery contest during the celebrations of the betrothal of Sansa Stark and Theon Greyjoy, now the King and Queen of the Iron Islands. Carved from Winterfell’s own heart tree, it was ornately decorated with a perfect balance; designed for a man stronger than Ramsay was back then, it had taken him months to be strong enough to even string it. It was irreplaceable. Frothing, boiling rage was churning in Ramsay’s stomach at the idea of his careless son running about with it, risking the wood warping or snapping in some foolish game. Pod was right to be wrathful; Ramsay was incandescent with rage already.

“Answer me!”

“I only wanted a turn with it,” Merik said petulantly, “Father used it in the war. I want to be an archer too! Yet he won’t even teach me, when everyone knows he’s the best-”

“Your father is a busy man, and the master-at-arms is a great instructor,” said Pod, “You’re doing perfectly well in your weapons training. And your desire is not an excuse to take property that does not belong to you. Especially not something so precious. This bow is singular, unique and will last for centuries if it is not misused. If I catch you even so much as glancing at it again, I’ll ring your head like a bell!”

Merik nodded miserably, scuffing his feet, his face the bright, flaming red of humiliation.

“You’re lucky I’m not going to tell your father of this,” Pod concluded with an unhappy sigh, “As it is, I see no damage. You better run to the heart tree and thank the gods for that.”

Merik’s lower lip wobbled in an effort to stave off tears. Softening at last, Pod placed one hand on his shoulder and drew the little boy close to place a kiss upon his forehead. Merik immediately clung to him, desperate for affection and forgiveness. Ramsay took several deep breaths to allow the fury in his stomach to dissipate somewhat.

“I’m sorry,” Merik mumbled.

Ramsay’s fingers twitched with the need to lash out. If he had been in Pod’s place, he would have clouted the boy round the ears twice by now. The rush of his blood had not dispersed yet. He still longed to break something, in order to snap the tension in his body. He flexed his aching fingers, forcing them to release from shaking fists.

“Run along to the godswood, now,” Pod reminded Merik, and the boy did so, skittering off like a frightened hare.

Pod slumped forwards into a sagging hunch, pinching the bridge of his nose as soon as the boy was out of sight. Ramsay left him to his lamentations. If Pod took note of his presence, Ramsay could not feign ignorance. If anyone knew that he was aware of this infringement, even Pod, Ramsay would be forced to defend his honour. Roose Bolton would never forgive a trespass against his person or property, and Ramsay must do the same. It was one instance where he and his father were in complete agreement. But unlike Roose, Ramsay did not take a vile pleasure out of torturing his own kin. Ramsay carried that sickness aye, the pleasure gained from other’s pain, but from not the suffering of those he loved.

Despite his fury over the infraction, Ramsay did not want to be the one to punish his son, because his punishment would have to be harsh and cruel. He did not want to be the kind of man who was cruel to children, and especially not his own child. Ramsay did not want to be anything like Roose. He slunk back into the shadows and fled, his heart pounding rapidly from the confused rage. The dungeons at the Dreadfort were rarely empty. He would find another way to satiate his rage.

*

“Up!” Ramsay barked at his slumbering son, a sennight later.

Merik nearly leapt out of his featherbed in surprise. The covers entangled him, forcing him to slide gracelessly from the bed in an undignified heap.

“Father?” he mumbled, squinting in the dark.

Ramsay was holding a torch aloft, but the sun had barely crested the horizon, and the fire in his son’s chambers had long since gone stale, leaving the room in shadow. The kind of long, haunting shadows that transformed into beasts and ghouls at the slightest provocation in the Dreadfort.

“Dress yourself,” said Ramsay, tossing his only child an apple with his spare hand, “And be quick about it.”

Merik hopped about comically in his haste to lace up his breeches and pull his boots on. Ramsay waited impatiently by the door, and as soon as the boy was ready, thrust a pack and a bow at him.

“What-”

“We’re going hunting,” said Ramsay shortly, unlatching the door and preparing to make his way down to the horses that he had already had saddled.

It took him a long moment to realise Merik hadn’t followed him into the dim, draughty hallway. Ramsay ducked his head back into his son’s room, perplexed by the hesitation. Merik stared back at him with wide eyes.

“Did… did Pod say-”

“Pod? What about Pod?” Ramsay said flippantly, “You’re the one always whining about me never helping you improve how to shoot. You seem to have forgotten my hands over yours, during your first attempts to loose an arrow. But no matter; you were very small. If a refreshment is what you’re after, you’ll get it. But only if you cease tarrying and come along!”

Despite the low lighting, Merik’s beaming smile shone out, his dark eyes glittering with joy.

2.

Ramsay set the toddling babe down at his feet.

“M’lord,” said Podrick, his young squire, “Are you certain…?”

His wife snorted from her place kneeling beside their son, unimpressed by this clear and obvious fear. Ramsay well knew why. Myranda’s father was his father’s kennelmaster. She had been around hounds her whole life, perhaps even when she had been smaller than Merik was now. She was fearless, and those hounds were the reason why. For how much fear could a fool with a blade hold for a girl who had lived with the threat of being torn to shreds before she was even able to talk? She was the only one who had never been afraid of him. Even his brother had twitched in fear around Ramsay a time or two. Not exactly in fear for himself, but in fear of what Ramsay might do to raise their father’s temper, and thus place them both at risk.

“Open the gate, Podrick,” Ramsay ordered.

The boy swallowed thickly, but did as he was bid, carefully unlatching the gate to a single stall where the oldest and most tolerant of Ramsay’s surviving bitches had been separated from the younger, more aggressive beasts.

“Bessie,” Ramsay clucked, and the hound padded out into the cobbled corridor of the kennels obediently.

Ramsay held out a confident hand and the bitch licked his fingers, hoping to curry favour. He rubbed her head, roughly affectionate. Merik tottered in front of him, and Bessie sniffed in his direction, looking up at Ramsay for instruction. She clearly wanted to know if the boy was food.

“Sit,” Ramsay barked, to which she promptly placed her rump on the hay-strewn floor. Merik let out a happy shriek, staggering forwards to wrap his arms around the soft neck of the killer beast that Ramsay routinely used to tear people apart.

Bessie let out a warning growl and Pod started forward, eager to lift to boy out of the reach of her fangs. But Ramsay was quicker.

“Settle!” he ordered, and Bessie quietened, letting Merik pat at her and tug on her ears.

“Gentle now,” said Myranda, leaning around Merik to pet the bitch’s head, smoothing her elegant hand down Bessie’s back.

Merik followed her lead, his tiny hands doing their best to replicate Myranda’s movements.

“There now,” Ramsay cooed, offering his nervous squire a smirk, “All is well.”

He knelt beside his family, rubbing Merik’s dark tumble of curls before joining them in smothering the lucky hound in more affection than she quite knew what to do with.

3.

“Father!” Merik hissed from somewhere nearby.

Ramsay turned, but did not see the young man in question. He was not one for idle tomfoolery, and well his son knew it. Before he could order the boy to show himself, Ramsay felt something very cold and unwelcome splatter the side of his cloak. Looking down at himself in consternation, Ramsay saw a dusting of wet snow where there had been only dry fur before. His eyes snapped up to the trees surrounding him, narrowed menacingly.

“You dare-”

Another snowball hit him before Ramsay concluded his sentence, followed by a shameless giggle.

Rose and Merik were seated in the tree beside him, sniggering like jeering ravens. Incredulous, Ramsay watched as they raised their gloved hands again. Seeing that the skirmish was unpreventable, Ramsay dived, managing to avoid being pelted by enemy missiles as he scooped up his own icy weapons. His aim throwing a spear, knife or axe was just as deadly as his aim with the bow. He caught both the hellions with his first two throws, but Rose was too quick to take cover, diving out of the oak and running for cover in the tangled thicket.

Ramsay knew better than to follow her into whatever trap they had devised. Merik and Rose had ever been allies. They knew the secrets of the godswood better than anyone, even he and Dom. They had never found much solace here, and preferred to play elsewhere. Dom in particular was suspicious of offending the gods, fearful of stoking their ire. Ramsay didn’t really care for the god’s opinions; they were cruel cunts just like everyone else. According to Pod, the godswoods of the south were always used as areas to lounge in the sun or for child’s play. Ramsay doubted the patron gods of the Dreadfort would be nourished by such things, given the history of the House they sustained, but he certainly didn’t believe they would be angered by harmless play within their sacred groves.

He took another blow, this time to his hair, grimacing at the feel of wet snow immediately melting and making him shiver. But leaping into action kept him warm; he hit Merik in the chest full force and the boy let out a shriek and plunged straight out of the tree. The crunch when he hit the ground was barely muffled by the thick snow.

“Merik?” Ramsay yelled, the enthused smile immediately sliding off his face.

“I’m well!” Merik called, but Ramsay raced around to the other side of the tree to check regardless.

From the opposite direction, Rose poked her head from her hiding place and hurried over. Merik was sitting up, brushing the snow from his arms.

“Forgive me-”

The words tumbled out before Ramsay had even considered them to be strange. How fatherhood had changed him, he would later muse, when he was no longer terrified his son would be broken in a heap from a foolish game. But just then, Ramsay was too busy tugging Merik to his feet, to batter away the snow and run his hands over his rapidly soaking form, to check for tender places.

“Father, I’m not hurt,” Merik insisted, in the way of young men the world over who think they are too old for coddling.

But Ramsay was unconvinced. The Dreadfort was a cursed castle, and perhaps the gods had been displeased by their playfulness after all. No longer residents and yet his son was almost killed by the damn place regardless!

It was their first winter since moving to the Redbolt. But Pod and Ramsay had decided to spend the early half of it, before the roads became impassible, here instead. Ramsay had been too easily persuaded by Dom’s impassioned pleas for them to attend the Harvest festival and then return ‘home’ to the Dreadfort. They should have returned to the coast by now, should be seeing to their new bannermen. Though their castellan had been instructed on how to divide the food stores, who knew if all was going according to plan? Ramsay had indulged Merik’s pouting begging to spend more time with Ingrid and ‘Rosy’ as he called her, since it was likely Rose would be married by the coming of the next winter. He had not regretted this choice until now.

“We should see if cook will make us hot milk,” said Rose sensibly.

Ramsay nodded in agreement, and before Merik could protest, Ramsay bent down and lifted him about the waist, flinging his son over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Father!” Merik squawked indignantly, “I can walk!”

“Aye, but best not to risk it,” said Ramsay, with supremely feigned indifference at his son's weight.

Merik had been _significantly_ smaller the last time Ramsay had carried him anywhere. Ignoring Rose’s bright laughter and his son’s heated protests, Ramsay lead the small procession into the warmth of the keep that was perhaps still home, despite how little Ramsay loved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read, please consider reviewing! Comments are much appreciated! <3


	2. Chapter 2

4.

“We can’t go on a hunt over the next sennight,” said Ramsay forcefully.

Roose arched an eyebrow sagely, unmoved; “And whyever not? The castle requires more stores of flesh meat unexpectedly. I have explained the unfortunate spoilage from the damaged stores. This is not some conspiracy against you-”

Ramsay narrowly resisted the urge to call his father a liar to his face. Without Domeric to hold him back, he was forced to rely on his own self-restraint which was sorely lacking, even when his father wasn’t being purposefully obtuse. Deep breaths helped him to control his murderous urges, but only just.

“Dom can go with his men alone,” said Ramsay, “ He’s every inch the hunter I am, and I will go several times in the coming month to help with the shortage, if it please you.”

“It does not,” said Roose, in that quietly menacing way he had perfected.

“I will not be leaving this keep within the sennight, the risk of returning late is too high,” Ramsay began, despite knowing his father knew exactly how a party might be delayed by the unpredictable spring storms, and simply did not care what it would mean.

Roose smoothly interrupted him to insist; “You will, if I wish it. This castle does not function on sentiment. It requires meat to keep the people healthy. Hungry folk stir trouble. A quiet land and a peaceful people cannot be maintained without meat. I will not ask again.”

“Good,” said Ramsay shortly, backing away rapidly toward the door, “Then I shall not have to insist, again, that I must remain here for Merik’s name-day.”

Roose glared at him with a hatred that was more smoulderingly obvious than usual. Without the buffer of Domeric there as he usually was, to step between them if things got too heated, Ramsay wondered if they might actually came to blows. If he killed his father, what would Dom do? It was a question Ramsay had been asking himself for years. Usually in the dead of night, when Pod was snoring lightly by his side. Were there any way for Ramsay to be sure of the answer, he would have done it already. He had never stopped to wonder whether his father was kept awake by similar thoughts, creeping across his mind in the hour of the wolf. Perhaps he should have.

Roose rose to his full height but Ramsay was quicker. He leapt to the door and yanked it open, skittering past the guard outside with his heart hammering a mile a minute. With the slam of every heartbeat he expected his father to yell for the guards to apprehend him for some invented charge, but it never came. Perhaps his father bluffed more often than Ramsay realised. It was interesting knowledge to store away.

He wanted to head directly to his rooms. To wait for Pod to return if he hadn’t already, and fall into his capable arms. It would be so easy to collapse between the sheets of his featherbed and rut the fury away. But that would do nothing to cure the underlying ailment. His father’s rotten attitude and determination to be as pitiless and spiteful as possible, to a boy who had done nothing but try to please him, was ever so familiar and would not change if Ramsay merely ignored the snake bite. He had to try and draw the poison out.

Dom and Ramsay had suffered to the point of insanity under Roose’s despotic rule. But their respective children had been shielded from that abuse as best as they were able. So Roose had to inflict it second hand. But there was another who could gain his father’s attention and hold it enough to effect change.

Gwyn was a stronger woman than Ramsay or Domeric’s mothers, and she had managed to prevent Roose from being overly judgemental with their daughter. Thus, the girl was somewhat spoilt. Dom and Ramsay had been brutally honest with her and Gwyn both, about some of the methods she might be punished with, if she ever stepped too far out of line. Their sister Ingrid was usually insipidly sweet to their father because of their warnings, and Roose was mollified by it. It was true that Roose expected vastly different behaviour from girls. Whereas men must remain unsentimental, plain-speaking and emotionless if they wished to move him to action, the girls of the family were expected to be unable to control their feminine hysteria.

Wylla had Rose and Beth too well-trained as dainty little ladies, but Ramsay knew they had more of Dom’s cunning than they usually let on. Still, it was not their help he needed, nor even Gwyn’s, manipulative and magnificent though his father’s wife was. No, only his sister had the gumption and pipes to do what needed to be done.

*

The screech could probably be heard from three floors down. High-pitched and ear-piercing, rare and dreaded all the more for it.

“You’re going to spoil Merik’s name-day! You’re going to ruin it!” Ingrid howled, and the hounds in the kennels directly below began to bark in reply, thinking her words were for them.

There was a loud crash as something was broken. Ramsay smirked to himself and hoped it was something valuable. His sister began to wail like a White Walker. She rarely used her words to express her displeasure when she worked herself into one of these fits. It was glorious.

Pod soon joined him in the corridor directly below his father’s rooms. Pod was carrying a basket of eggs in one hand, signifying he had completed his chores. He had evidently taken a detour from ferrying his bounty to the kitchens, so he could eavesdrop on the developing situation himself, though he would never admit it.

“What have you done?” he sighed, knowing Ramsay well enough to see his hand upon this.

“Nothing that was unnecessary.” Ramsay assured him, satisfied that there were some members of his blood kin that he could wholeheartedly rely on, despite the years between them.

5.

Settling into a new keep came with so many new responsibilities, it was enough to make Ramsay’s head spin. If he hadn't been taught to run a keep at Dom's knee, Ramsay wouldn't have had the first notion of how to navigate the politics of it all. Regardless, he felt as though he was spening all the hours of the sun battling with his new advisors and bannermen over every little issue, until he was ready to slit all of their throats.

Pod’s presence made it more bearable, but he wasn’t present for every interaction with their new servants and vassals. It was trying, to maintain his newly acquired reputation as a man responsible enough to oversee the formation of a new port. Ramsay was used to people flinching away from him in fear, not a hundred hungry peasants openly begging him for work.

Thankfully Pod had taken on all the duties of the lady of the keep, and Robb Stark’s complex law regarding their respective landed rights gave him these powers in law as well as common acceptance. Under the law, in all ways Pod commanded the status of Ramsay’s lady wife, and his mother had decided to use this as her basis for her interaction with him also. Thus Pod assigned the household staff, and saved Ramsay many headaches.

Spring had only just turned to summer by the time they had settled into a working routine, most of the trading, taxation and tolling decrees having been written up and ratified by the King in the North. One such eve, Ramsay threw himself upon his featherbed and felt as though he had fought a bear, such were the aches over every inch of his body.

“Tired, love?” asked Pod, crawling in beside him.

Ramsay replied with only a heartfelt groan, to which Pod chuckled. His husband in all but name kissed the tired skin of Ramsay’s shoulder softly, then settled down beside him.

“I feel as though I haven’t seen you in moons,” Pod whispered, snuggling into the furs further, before resting his head on Ramsay’s shoulder.

Ramsay tipped his heavy head sideways, so that it was resting atop Podrick’s, and they could confer in even quieter murmurs.

“I’ve missed you,” Ramsay confessed.

He fumbled beneath their coverings until he found Pod’s hand. He lifted the younger man’s well-worn knuckles to his lips, to bestow a single, heartfelt kiss there. He was too tired for anything more energetic. But he gathered Pod felt the same, judging by the soft sigh he offered as he wiggled about to gently wrap Ramsay into an embrace.

“I’m worried about Merik,” he said, “He seems out of sorts.”

Ramsay frowned. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but their boy was almost of age now. He didn’t require the same supervision and cossetting. Left to his own devises, the worst he had done was find a baby bird and insist he must have a cage to keep it in his rooms. Which was hardly a difficulty to accommodate.

“Perhaps he’s feeling overlooked,” said Ramsay, who knew how isolating it was when you were neglected.

“Merik’s used to being in a keep full of similar-aged highborn youths,” said Pod, “Perhaps he’s lonely.”

“I’ll take him on a hunt. It’s about time we explored the true potential of the woods here,” Ramsay promised.

“Hmm,” Pod yawned around his agreement, so Ramsay leaned over him to snuff out the last candle with a single huff of breath.

The following morn, Ramsay intended to look in on his son before Merik left for his lessons. But he was stopped by a maid, who informed him of a tear in a tapestry that would require men to take it down for repair. After he had directed her to their newly appointed steward, it was too late to bother looking in on Merik’s rooms. Knowing him to be in the sparring yard, at least if Merik was being attentive to his studies, Ramsay made his way there instead.

It seemed as good a time as any to gain a report on Merik’s progress, and see for himself what might require improvement. Merik had not yet trained with the pike or halberd, and Ramsay decided to suggest it. There was always an advantage to using a weapon that could still fell your enemy from a decent distance, even if you ran out of arrows.

Ramsay’s father had granted them a small contingent of guardsmen as a parting gift, men loyal to Ramsay, like Olyvar, Sour Alyn and Damon, along with his wife Tansy and their sons. But if they wanted men-at-arms worth a damn, they needed to recruit local men, and begin training them as soon as possible. Most of these appointments had gone smoothly. Ramsay was a good judge of character, but he was not entirely infallible. He wouldn’t consider himself a warrior, though he would fight when called upon and knew what to look for. It’s was the lord of the keep’s duty to assign these particular appointments, and though Pod was fully capable, Ramsay did his duty for the most part. When he grew bored with assessing the skills of hopeful young smallfolk, he left the rest to Damon, the Captain of his guards. Thus, Ramsay did not know all the men who made the cut personally.

He certainly did not know the brute currently sparring with his son. Ramsay understood it was necessary to practice with opponents of differing sizes, to learn how to kill men of all statures. He had not expected his son to hold his own so well with a man so much broader, however. Ramsay was feeling proud indeed when the master-at-arms called a halt to the bout, without a clear winner between them. Their tourney swords were taken by a squire, but as Merik turned away, likely to take a pull from his water-skin, the other youth grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back.

“I’d cut that smirk from your face, were this a real fight,” the other man sneered at Merik.

His son only blinked at the continued aggression, knowing the practice fight was over. Ramsay knew Merik did not always grasp the emotions of others, or the nuance of a situation without having it explained to him. This was clearly an instance of such.

“Enough, Lonnel,” warned the master-at-arms, a stout man named Torrhen.

“Not my fault he’s a coward," sneered Lonnel, backhanding Merik across the face before Torrhen could intervene, “See?”

Merik clutched the side of his jaw in surprise, but he did not retaliate. Torrhen rushed toward them, but it was far too late to cool the steaming of Ramsay’s blood. Well did he remember the years before his knighthood, a bastard constantly set upon by Bolton men, because they knew his father would not lift a finger to help him. Ramsay had always fought back, as savage as the hard men Roose Bolton had always surrounded himself with. He hadn’t had a choice, especially when Dom was in fosterage. No one at the Dreadfort had dared to try the same with Merik. Ramsay had long earned the respect and fear of his father’s men by the time his son was born.

Ramsay calmly turned to a nearby man, who was watching the proceedings with a slack mouth.

“Symon, isn’t it?”

“Yes m’lord,” squeaked the youth, very startled by his sudden presence.

“That’s a sound bow, Symon. May I?”

The boy handed it over without protest, as a good servant should. Ramsay hummed in an absorbed manner, testing the string strength and smoothing his hand along the wood, entirely ignoring Torrhen reprimanding the boy Merik had been sparring with. The men surrounding the hay targets watched Ramsay considering the bow, hesitant and tense. But those who were surrounding the open courtyard cleared for sparring with hand-held weaponry, had still not noticed him.

In a neat, rapid movement, Ramsay plucked an arrow from Symon’s quiver, knocked it and let it fly. It soared through the air near silently, plunging with deadly accuracy at the armpit joint where even boiled armour was weak. The unfortunate brute was skewered with a wheeze, crumpling to his knees with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Merik and Torrhen wheeled around in fear of more arrows. They watched Ramsay serenely hand the bow back to the trembling Symon, and begin stalking toward them. Ramsay prowled across the courtyard confidently, unrepentant. He came to stand above the dying man, and watch Lonnel's last gasps with merciless eyes.

“No one raises a hand to my son,” he said loudly, “Unless their name is Redbolt.”

Ramsay took hold of the undamaged side of Merik’s face, assessing the rapidly bruising other half in silence. He wondered how many other such incidents he had not learnt of, and why Merik had not come to him. He had always tried to be more accommodating than Roose had been with him. Ramsay stepped closer to press a quick kiss to his son’s hair. Then he released him and reached for his favourite blade. He always kept it sheathed at his back, in specially sewn flaps of leather added to all his doublets and jerkins. He offered the flaying knife to Merik without a word.

His son visibly squared his shoulders before accepting it. Merik took it as silently as it had been offered. Then he crouched down and bobbed back up again, having finished off his detractor with a sharp stab though his left eye. Merik lifted the blade up, so that his father could see how he had come away with additional goods.

“Should I keep this?” he asked Ramsay, who shrugged.

“An ear would be better. That will shrivel up and rot away, but you can dry out an ear just like leather, and it will keep.”

“Oh,” said Merik, unceremoniously flicking the eyeball from the point of the knife. It bounced and rolled along the cobbles, before becoming stuck in a gap between two stones. Behind them, someone retched.

“You can return that to me this afternoon,” said Ramsay, “Pod wants us to take luncheon together.”

“Yes Father,” said Merik obediently, already absorbed in the task of peeling away his trophy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this fic listening to my Rampod playlist... and with "I Don't Care" by Ed Sheeran & Justin Beiber on repeat a lot of the time, even though it's not really my kinda music lol. 
> 
> I love Ed Sheeran but most of my Rampod songs are slow moody alt indie ones.... and "IDC" is SUCH a party tune but its also THE Rampod anthem. aND its A LeGiT dUEt bEtWEen tWo duDeS!! I can't get over how perfect it is for this ship XD
> 
> ...Should I make a fanmix?


	3. Chapter 3

+1

The sound of a small squeal made Ramsay look up from his parchment in concern. He had left his grand-daughter playing on the rug in his solar, in the capable paws of Betsy, Merik’s aged and soft-hearted bitch. As usual, the hound had fallen asleep stretched out in front of the fireplace, despite the fact it was unlit on this sweltering summer’s day. Barba was none the worse for the guard dog’s inattention. She was babbling to herself, lifting up a ragdoll that had been sewn by her mother, and shaking it by the ankles. As though she was hoping to loose some treasure from the doll’s pockets, or else…

Ramsay frowned heavily, and rose from his chair, shaking out the cramp in his hand with less ease than he used to. Overseeing the taxation for the goods at the port was a tedious endeavour. But as the official lord of the Redbolt, the task fell to him. There were only so many responsibilities that Pod would allow Ramsay to palm off onto him, and unfortunately, this was not one of them. Glad of the respite from going over the dusty old ledgers, and attempting to update the terms of current treaties, Ramsay plonked himself down beside his tiny, plump grand-daughter. She immediately looked to him, offering Ramsay a gummy smile.

“Ba-ba!” said Barba seriously, giving the unlucky doll another vicious shake.

“What have we here?” said Ramsay, and took hold of the well-loved yet ragged toy when she offered it to him.

He considered the doll's position. It recalled something undeniable, to a man who had spent his entire youth in a castle ripe with wooden crosses.

“Flaying is punishment reserved for serious crimes,” Ramsay explained, despite the fact that it had been outlawed long before he was even born.

(What the King in the North did not know, would do him no harm.)

“We should not be so hasty to deal out this measure for a first crime,” Ramsay warned his grand-daughter, who watched him with wide eyes, rapt with attention.

He righted the doll, and lifted one of the cloth arms. It was in need of a good wash due to frequent attention. But Ramsay suspected a vigorous scrub might cause it to disintegrate. He certainly did not want to be the one responsible for the resulting distress that would lead to, over the loss of a favourite plaything.

“Still, if we are too lenient, there are those who would try to take advantage,” Ramsay continued, to expand on his stance regarding torture; “And if enough strife is caused, there could even be an uprising. Some upstart, low-as-dirt masterly lord might try to take all that we have worked so hard for. So if a crime is serious enough, beyond the stocks, then we take a finger, don’t we, little one?”

Barba promptly launched herself toward the doll Ramsay was holding out to her, and jammed its soft hand into her drooling mouth. She gummed on it contentedly, as Ramsay cooed at her for being such a clever girl.

“That’s right!” he smiled, “Of course, your Great-Grandfather would say to take the whole hand. But he’s a prick, so don’t you mind him.”

Barba made a satisfied humming noise. Her mouth was still firmly about the doll’s appendage, which Ramsay took for assent. He was always happy to have more alliances against his father’s tyranny, and its was best to start them young.

“Men missing a whole hand are much more useless than men missing a mere finger,” said Ramsay conversationally, leaning backward to rest upon the heels of his hands, “And most are incredibly useless to begin with, so any advantage you leave them with will make them ever so grateful to be released without a worse punishment. Your Grandfather Podrick taught me that.”

Like a true Redbolt, Barba was less interested in tales of leniency; she rolled onto her stomach, then began to crawl with great haste toward the sleeping hound. As incautious as her father, she plunged headfirst into reckless action. She was tugging on the dog’s tail before Ramsay could prevent her. He wasn’t as quick at the draw as he used to be. Ramsay successfully managed to scoop her into his arms and out of harm’s way, but the docile hound did nought but open one lazy eye.

With a yawn and wriggle, Betsy shook herself awake, sniffing at the air. She raised up onto her back legs, in her efforts to get closer to Barba. Ramsay had momentarily forgotten Betsy was not one of his vicious hunting bitches, but Merik’s coddled creature. Cautiously, Ramsay lowered his arms, letting Barba get nearer. The delighted dog gave Barba a huge lick, slobbering across her face and neck. Barba found this most agreeable, hooting and wiggling with delight. Ramsay slumped back down to the bear-skin rug, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief.

As he wiped her face free from spittle, Ramsay wondered where Barba had gotten the idea to hoist up her doll, like a man upon a battlefield cross. They were not Boltons, and the Redbolt crest displayed no such icon. Barba had been born at the Redbolt, thank the gods, and she would never know the horrors of the Dreadfort if he could prevent it. Ramsay considered how often the babe had found herself in Domeric’s arms, during his brother’s latest visit. She must have gotten a good eyeful of the Flayed Man on his elder brother’s leathers. Frequently enough that the image had remained at the forefront of Barba’s mind. Inordinately pleased at this proof of her intelligence, at least in regard to retaining macabre imagery, Ramsay continued to praise his only grand-daughter for her skill.

At length, Ramsay set her down again and returned to his desk. Mind eased from the agreeable distraction, he managed to pen a few short missives. When he next looked up to see that Barba was well, and found that she had disappeared. With an uncomfortable jolt, Ramsay almost rushed from his chair to search his solar for Barba’s tiny form. A minuscule, sticky hand waylaid him. Barba had crawled beneath Ramsay's desk and was now patting at his ankles playfully. With a sigh, Ramsay lowered himself back into his calf-leather chair, then leaned down to heft his plump grand-daughter into his sturdy arms. 

“Well done, Barba,” Ramsay said proudly, “Hiding effectively is an invaluable skill.”

Barba slapped at his thighs forcefully, giggling cheerfully at her successful ploy to turn more of his hair grey.

“Subterfuge is always a good battlefield tactic,” Ramsay commended her, “Most Northmen would tell you that crannogmen are dishonourable, for using poison-slicked weapons and skulking in the shadows, to creep upon their enemy at the opportune moment. But most men are dullards, little one, Northmen or no. If you can get away with leaping out from the dark and stabbing your enemy in the back, before they’re even aware you’re there: I call that ingenious. Why, when Podrick and I were in the Neck…”

And so began a long regalement of the crannogmen and their clever, tricky ways. Ramsay spent the next hour or so with Barba in his lap as he worked. He discovered the tedious tasks were less so, when he could pepper them with useful lessons on strategy and schemes.

When Merik eventually poked his head into the room without knocking, Ramsay only offered him a glower. 

“Father-” Merik said, sounding out of breath, “Is Barba with you? I thought she was with Pod, but-”

“Lower your voice,” Ramsay hissed, “I’ll put you in the stocks if you wake her, don’t think that I won’t.”

Merik shrugged off the idle threat, unfearful, but advancing deliberately slowly nonetheless. He blinked at the unexpected sight of his daughter sound asleep in his father’s arms, her round face soft in repose. She was pillowed securely on Ramsay’s left arm, which had long been numb from immobilisation. It was a shock to Ramsay himself, that he had chosen to let his arm ‘play dead’ rather than disturb her. Barba was lying on her stomach across his lap, drooling in contentment. Merik’s smile was so sweetly indulgent that Ramsay bristled.

“Take this tiny rabble-rouser and get out,” said Ramsay, “And mind you knock next time you invade my solar.”

Merik smirked broadly. He was not fooled by Ramsay’s bluster for even a moment, and Ramsay knew it. He would have cursed the gods for making him soft in his advancing years, and allowing his son to see it, if he wasn’t having such a jolly good time on a regular basis.

“As you bid, Father,” said Merik obediently, tentatively lifting his babe into a careful hold.

Barba snuggled into her father's shoulder without waking, and Ramsay had to clamp very forcefully down on the urge to demand her return. Ramsay was not _jealous_, Podrick's gentle ways were just clearly influencing him in a ludicrous manner. 

It was only after Merik was gone, that Ramsay realised Barba’s doll had been abandoned and forgotten beneath his desk. He considered calling for a maid to return it to the nursery, but something stayed his hand. He set the ragged plaything on his desk to return it later himself. And if he felt like his grand-daughter needed another lecture on battle tactics at that time, well, no one else need know about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a fanmix!  
[](https://ibb.co/k9qk0yG)  
[In the form of a spotify account with a single playlist. ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1YzpAHmv9sx3xNoWLb6EkB)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments mean the world to me :)


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